She met her husband on the threshold of his room, and pushed him impulsively back, her hands against his breast.
"Trevor, please don't be angry with him. He—we often go on like that.
There is nothing to be angry about—indeed."
He took her hands and held them. She was panting a little; he waited while she recovered herself. Then, "Chris," he said very gently, "don't you think it is time you left off being afraid of me?"
"But when you are angry—" murmured Chris.
"You have never seen me angry yet."
"You are not angry with Noel?" she asked quickly.
He smiled a little. "My dear child, Noel is no more capable of making me angry than that fly on the ceiling. But I am not going to have him behaving badly for all that."
"But he didn't," she urged, in distress. "It was all my fault. Trevor—Trevor, please don't say any more! He was quite right. I—I didn't tell the truth."
She made the confession in a broken whisper, with her face hidden against him. But a moment later she had sprung away in haste, for there came the clatter of careless feet upon the stairs, and Noel dashed suddenly upon the scene.
"Oh, I say, do stop jawing and come down," he said as he presented himself. "Poor Aunt Phil is ravenous for her lunch. What do you want me for, Trevor?"